


Results May Differ.

by CreativeUsermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Autistic Rose, F/F, Gen, Kid Fic, kid rose lalonde, ongoing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-02-17 06:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13071351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativeUsermeme/pseuds/CreativeUsermeme
Summary: Or: How to make three (3) lasting friends, take care of your many (Unknown quantity) cats, play one (1) world ending video game, gain a (1) girlfriend-later-fiancee-later-wife, become a god with multiple (At least 4, needs further exploration) untold powers including Sight and immortality, and make a (1) universe, all within 16 years. Results may differ.





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is Rose Lalonde and you're three years old. Your name is pretty great, you think, you've got enough curvy letters to make little cats. Your mom- Who is the best, ever, and that's all there is to say about it- taught you how to make letters and you draw them everywhere you can. Rooooooooooooose Laaaaaaaaalooooooonde. It's an important name, you know it, because you're gonna be a writer someday, or a sea doctor, or a horse rider, or- Well, you're gonna be important, that's what matters. 

You look up from your horse drawing (Purple, always purple, and not the icky light kind, no, good dark purple) to ask Mom about the trees. You know they curve, you can see them outside, but you wanna know why, and she knows everything. 

She's left, though, she's not on the black and pink couch where she's supposed to be, and you're a little scared. 

You get up, holding the Rose-Art purple marker (Always Rose-Art, that's your name like purple is your color, because Crayola sucks anyway, especially when you have your own brand of markers) in front of you like a wand. 

You walk through the arch to the stairs, gentle rain echoing through the halls, and slowly make your way upstairs. Mom's room is right by the stairs on the second floor, and you know you'll be there soon, but she left and she's not  _ supposed _ to do that, and you feel like screaming. 

You almost trip on the last stair, stumbling over the pretty pink rug, but you make it all the way to the door and open it. Mom's typing on her computer, but you can't see what's on it because it's too far and too bright and too loud of a sight.

"Mom?"

She spins around on her chair, facing you. "Hey, Rosey, how you doin'?" You're not sure how to answer that, you're doing because you do, but you continue anyway. "Why do branches curve?" She laughs a little and shakes her head. "I don't know, Sweetie, why are you askin'?" Your face falls a little- she's supposed to know, she  _ has _ to- but you explain the best you can. "I was drawing a tree but I didn't know how to do the branches, so I looked outside, and I wanted to know why they curve. Is it photo-kin-thesis?" She laughs again. "Photosynthesis, honey, and I told you I don't know. How'd you learn a big word like that?" You smile at that- Ha, you did something right- and carry on. "I read it in a book!" 

She gets up from her chair, her figure momentarily looming over the room, and walks towards you. She kneels down and gives you a little pat on the head and a hug, and turns you around. "That's real smart, sweetie" she says, "but Mommy's busy now, yeah? You go have some fun." She pushes you gently out of the room and walks back to her desk, and you frown at her.  "But- Mom, I wanted to be with you." 

She sighs and spins around again. "Baby, you can take your drawing up here, but I have to work. If I didn't do that, we wouldn't have money, yeah?" You nod sadly. 

You walk down the hall to stairs again to return to the couch, only for Jaspers to be sitting on your drawing. You laugh at him and pick him up, sitting on the floor and cuddling him. "Jaspers, you can't sit there." He meows at you in return. 


	2. Chapter 2

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you're five years old. You're at school, but you're pretty sure you got in trouble. You're sitting on a big chair in the front office, swinging your legs while you wait. You know why you're in trouble- It was time to clean up but a boy you don't know was putting up the books but he did it  _ wrong _ , he put them in just random, but they have to be by color, they only look good that way, so you pushed him down and started putting the books back the right way. 

He screamed at that point, which you didn't understand, you were just putting the books up, and the teacher came over. He started crying and blubbering about how you kicked him and it wasn't fair, so the teacher looked back at you. "He was putting the books back wrong, and the storytime book was wrong- You can't say goodnight to the moon when it's 238,900 miles away, that's impossible- And everything is just bad and it's loud and I wanna go home!"

She gave you a stare and said to go to the office, and that's where you are now. You look over to the chair next to you with your backpack (purple with black octopi) and take out the packet they gave you. 

'Highly gifted student,' it says. 'Private school recommended.' You stick your tongue out at it- You're not highly gifted, just because Hanukkah lasts eight days doesn't mean you get eight times the presents as everyone else- and stuff it back in. You wriggle down further in your seat and kick your legs intently. You can wait for a very long time. Another thing that makes the other kids think you’re weird- Beyond your splotchy skin and quiet demeanor and appreciation for marine life beyond Finding Nemo, you don’t have to always be running around and screaming your head off. You like the simplicity of the schedule, drawing at this time and letters after that, but you’re still rather frustrated. You already  _ know _ letters, and you already can read, and you already know the names of your favorite animals (octopus vulgaris and equus caballus), and you’re getting very bored with it all.

You hear the big doors opening, a cold September wind blowing through, but it’s not your mom. She’s busy, as usual. She works for a few different computer places, apparently a “freelance,” but you don’t know what that means so you say she’s a scientist most of the time. She usually comes home between 5:30 and 6:00, meaning that you’ve stayed at the school’s after-school care (It has an acronym- BAASC, Before And After School Care- which you always like because acronyms are fun) for the week, so you doubt she’ll be able to pick you up before then.

You decide to abandon your post, because, honestly, it’s 2:00 now and she won’t be here for quite some time, and head up to the library. You sling your backpack over your shoulders, making sure your matching purple and black water-bottle is safely in its pocket, and get up from the big bouncy chair. 

The library’s luckily in the same building, so you won’t need to go outside and wear your big puffy coat that makes your skin want to curl up and cry. You walk up the metal stairs and turn down a few corridors (Okay, halls, but corridor sounds fancy so you’re calling them that) to access the library. You pull open the heavy glass doors and walk down to a purple beanbag chair, setting down your things and pulling out a book. You’re starting a new series, Harry Potter, because your mom loves wizards and apparently these books are all about wizards, but you can’t really see the appeal. You’re a few chapters in and you’re pleased that there’s a lady who can turn into a cat (cats are your third favorite animal), but Harry’s boring and hasn’t done anything yet.

You sit read for awhile, getting lost in the book, until the librarian comes over.

“Hey, kiddo, that’s a pretty big book,” he says with a skeptical look, “especially for a little kid like you.”

You close the book and sigh a little before responding. “It is large, yes, but I don’t need any help. Thank you for offering, but I’ll be fine.” He’s fairly tall, and you don’t think you’ve seen him around in the week you’ve been here even though you’ve been in the library plenty of times, so you’re doubting that he’s actually the librarian. The school only goes up to fifth grade, so he’s not a student, so perhaps he’s a teacher? You give him another look, but he’s not wearing a nametag or plaque of any type. Shame.

“You supposed to be in here?” He asks.

“I was dismissed for the day, and my mom’s not picking me up for a while, so I don’t see where else I should be going.”

He seems to be content with that, and walks away, so you pick back up your book and cuddle into the nest of purple softness. It feels right and calming in a relaxing way, the texture of the pillow making your skin sing happily. You lose track of time, letting yourself go in the constructed world of magic and hope, until an announcement comes over the loudspeaker.

“Rose Lalonde at the office, Rose Lalonde.” They say your name wrong, it’s supposed to be LAH-londe, not luh-LONDE, but you know they’re still talking about you. Fine. You put your book in your backpack and leave the library.


End file.
